


our winter

by liionne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, clone steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're a perfect team. The Soldier is brute strength. He pushes forward, he punches and he kicks and he snarls. He barrels in and he takes down as many as he can. His Handler is the opposite. He is small. He's not big and strong like the Soldier is. He hangs back and picks off their rivals with a sniper rifle, under instructions to only fire when it is absolutely necessary. He stands in the shadows, and he waits.</p><p>The Soldier wants to protect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. voice

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Winter Soldier!Bucky and HYDRA Clone!Steve, based on [this post](http://offreedoms.tumblr.com/post/96974674940/karaii-hydra-steve-clone-and-the-winter-soldier).
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes.

"Soldier!"

He doesn't even think. He turns, feet planted firmly into the floor as his chest twist, his upper half turning towards the noise. They found his Handler. They found his _Handler_. His eyes widen, the only sign of weakness he'll ever show. He sees the glint of silver against the stark white of his Handler's neck, the slight, small dot of red that blooms from it. The Fourth Target is going to slit his throat.

And the Soldier simply cannot allow that.

He uses the but of the gun to knock the Third Target unconscious- Targets One, Two, Five and Six have already been eliminated. He should have eliminated Four when he had the chance, but he assumed his Handler would take care of it, because that's how they work.

They're a perfect team. The Soldier is brute strength. He pushes forward, he punches and he kicks and he snarls. He barrels in and he takes down as many as he can. His Handler is the opposite. He is small. He's not big and strong like the Soldier is. He hangs back and picks off their rivals with a sniper rifle, under instructions to only fire when it is absolutely necessary. He stands in the shadows, and he waits.

There is a reason why he must remain secret. The Soldier is not privy to this information, but someone is, because his Handler must remain even more secret than he. The Soldier doesn't make sure he hangs back for that, though.

He wants to protect him.

And there is something in that desperate yell that reminds him of a simpler time, reminds him of something distant and plain, sepia. He shakes his head, as if to clear the image from it, but it's still _there_ , right behind his eyes.

It's an alley, and it's dark, and there's the sound of bone crunching and a yell. There is a body, a tiny body, and a desperate cry of _"Bucky!"_ as that body is lifted from the ground and pressed against a wall. A fist connects, and the Soldier feels sick. He is never sick.

The memory - if it is a memory - fades, and the Soldier looks at the body of the Third Target on the floor. He's unconscious still. The Soldier shoots him in the head, and then he moves.

He pulls the Fourth Target away from his Handler with one hand, his flesh hand, and yet still manages to put enough force into it yank his shoulder out of place, causing him to cry out in pain. He slams him against the wall, hits him with the but of his gun so that he doubles over, and steals the knife from between his fingers. He shall prove to him that no one, _no one_ , challenges the Soldier. Not over his own property.

Because his Handler may be his _Handler_ , the agent sent to keep him, to guide him, but the Soldier has an odd sense of possession that sends him into every fray.

He draws the knife across the Fourth Target's throat, and he's gone, gurgling as he slumps against the wall.

The Soldier discards of the knife, barely registering it as it clatters to the floor. His Handler is clutching his neck, but there is only a single spot of blood there.

The Soldier sinks to his knees in front of him, flesh hand trembling as it reache out to push locks of blonde hair away from his face.

"Stevie?"

It's a whisper, quiet and high pitched and a whine, a desperate whine. He's the tiny body, the tiny body in the alley, the one that is pummeled and pummeled and almost broken-

There are hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. He looks up to two faceless agents. They are all faceless to hi. There are only ever three he recognises: his Handler, Rumlow, and Pierce. Everyone else is the same.

"Put him in the van- the clone'll sit up front."

It's Rumlow. The Soldier is led away to the back of an armor vehicle. He doesn't fight it. He doesn't pull back.

Not until he sees a hand close around the skinny arm of his Handler. His Handler yelps; Rumlow must be using considerable force as he drags him back to the car.

"Let go of him!"

The Soldier has no weapons, but he doesn't need any. He strikes out, shaking off both agents, and turns. He pushes through agent after agent, puts force into each punch he throws and leaves screams in his wake. He lashes out, he fights, he kicks and he spits. He finds a discarded gun, and he fires. He hears screams as he takes down one agent, and then another, and another, and another, until his fit is aimed at Rumlow's jaw-

He doesn't hear the taser until he feels it.

It runs through him, short circuits the metal arm. His Handler looks at him with watery eyes, and the Soldier wants to reach out, to tell him that it's all okay.

But that is not something the Soldier should _want_ to do.

The Soldier should not want to do _anything_.

He is dragged away. His Handler is dragged to the car, his eyes wide and sad as he watches the Soldier. The Soldier aches.

He sits in the van in silence, the name _Stevie_ on his lips.


	2. a lack thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier is not sure why he is so thrown by the lack of words. He racks his brain for a memory of his Handler talking, but none come up. Nothing. His Handler has never said a word to him in his life. The Soldier would not recognise his voice if he heard it.
> 
> So why does he care so much?

His Handler is taken to their usual debriefing room, but the Soldier does not wait outside as he usually does. Normal procedure is that his Handler goes in first, comes out, and takes the Soldier to his holding cell. He debriefs him there himself, and then their time is theirs. Most of it is spent in companiable silence. Sometimes, his Handler sketches. Sometimes there are things for them to read, jumbles of words and letters. The Soldier speaks English and Russian and French and Spanish and so many languages, languages that he just cannot remember learning.

He cannot remember a lot of things.

But that doesn't matter. His Handler is separated from him, and the Soldier is taken down to the laboratory.

He hates it there. The air smells metallic and stale, bitter, damp as though the walls are coated in moisture. It's always cold, freezing, making him shiver when he is required to remove his shirt. It is always heavily guarded. There are bars on the walls, on the windows, over the door.

It makes him feel like an animal.

And yet he goes willingly, still limp from his earlier punishment, his left arm dud. He cannot use it. The taser has rendered it inert, has completely removed the ability to reboot. Usually his arm would recallibrate, begin again, and he would get on with the mission. But after a punishment as severe as that, it will not work until one of the White Coats fixes it.

The White Coats are the same as the agents. They are faceless. There is only one that sticks in his mind, whom he sees around the complex of buildings that make up their main base. He sees that face on screens, blurry, sometimes green and sometimes grey. He remembers the man it belongs to being little. He remembers him having a strange voice. He remembers pain.

It's one of the few memories he actually has.

He is pushed into the chair, hands on his shoulders, but he goes willingly. Pierce is not in the room, but Rumlow is. Agents secure his wrists and his ankles. He cannot move. Someone comes and swabs the back of his hand with an orange sponge, and sticks a needle into a well worn vein. The will have to move to his elbow at some point. The vein in the back of his hand is beginning to thicken with scar tissue.

"Pierce says to wipe him."

"Wipe him?"

The White Coat looks to Rumlow, incredulous. The Soldier stares out through his hair, forming a dark curtain over his eyes.

"He just took out six agents, and injured another five. So yeah. Wipe 'im."

Rumlow arches his eyebrows. Had it been so many? The Soldier cannot remember. He can only remember the look of terror in his Handler's eyes.

"Alright." The White Coat concedes. "But wait-"

Rumlow has turned away, but now he turns back, and he arches his eyebrows again. The Soldier notes how he keeps a hand on the gun in the holster over his shoulder.

"What made him do it?" The White Coat asks.

Rumlow's lips purse. He looks to the Soldier, but the Soldier reaches the same conclusion as he does; what does it matter what Rumlow says in front of him? In a minute he will be wiped, his memory taken away. He won't remember this conversation ever happened.

Something flows through the IV in the Soldier's hand, and it calms him somewhat, releases the knot inside his chest just a little.

"The clone. Something 'bout his voice, they reckon." Rumlow answers.

There is a soft gasp from another White Coat, but the one who was speaking continues the conversation. "What are they doing about it? Just wiping him?"

"No." Rumlow answers. The knot in the Soldier's chest tightens again, and he begins to strain against his bonds. "No, they're taking extra precautions. Now wipe him."

There is the sound of ticking, of metal, and then pain. Nothing but pain.

The Soldier is wiped, as he always is.

~*~

He does not go back to his holding cell.

Instead he is taken to a room, where there is nothing but a single desk, a chair, and a television. The Soldier knows, vaguely, what a television is. He sits down, and is locked in place. He is always locked in place.

An agent begins to play the tape, and the Soldier, for a moment, wonders what he is about to see. What sinister horros they have in store for him today.

The answer is that they don't.

It is a tape of a man, stood against a white background, moving his hands. A woman, speaking in English, says a single word. She repeats it. The man makes an action as she does, and then repeats it.

Sign Language.

The Soldier is unsure of how many times he watches the tape. He loses track after the fifth time.

He is then, finally, return to his Holding Cell. His Handler is not there.

The Soldier lies on his bed, curls up on his side, and faces the wall. He tries to sleep whilst sleep is still an option.

~*~

There is no gun fire because their targets haven't seem them yet. His Handler peeks around a corner, rifle slung over his back, and the Soldier recognises this as familiar. There are only three targets. It should be an easy enough mission.

His Handler turns back to him, and his hands begin to fly, making shapes and symbols and odd movements. It doesn't take the Soldier long to put it all together.

_"3 targets present, all armed, one in the rear, two in the front. Be careful."_

No. No but that's wrong. He looks at his Handler's lips, waiting, but his Handler does nothing. It's not the first time the Soldier has looked at those lips. It's not the first time he's touched them, either, as he reaches out with a flesh hand, fingers nearly meeting his lower lip.

His Handler catches his hand. The Soldier notices that his hand is trembling, yet he gives the Soldier's fingers a gentle squeeze.

The Soldier is not sure why he is so thrown by the lack of words. He racks his brain for a memory of his Handler talking, but none come up. Nothing. His Handler has never said a word to him in his life. The Soldier would not recognise his voice if he heard it.

So why does he care so much?

 _"Go."_ His Handler signs. _"Be careful, please."_

The Soldier nods. His brow crumples. He wants to stay. Or he wants to pull his Handler into his chest and run. There is something wrong here, and it aches deep in his chest, but his Handler is looking at him with big, wide eyes.

The Soldier nods again. He hesitates, but he nods, and then he goes.

Three targets is not as easy as it seems. His Handler manages to take down the second with a few well-aimed shots, but there's a lot of hand-to-hand combat between the Soldier and the first target, punching and hissing and kicking. The Soldier manages to kick his legs out from under him, and kills him whilst he is down.

It's not very dignified, but it doesn't have to be.

And then the Soldier notices that the Third Target is gone. Two bodies, but no third. No man standing around, no man trying to fight.

There is a hand on his elbow, and the Soldier looks down into the eyes of his Handler. His Handle always used to be different; his mask covered his eyes and not his mouth, whilst the Soldier's covered his mouth and not his eyes. The Soldier wonders why, now, when his Handler seems to be mute.

 _"He's gone,"_ his Handler signs. _"We have to go after him."_

The hand on his elbow is warm. The Soldier looks at the open doorway, and nods.

 _"Let's go."_ he signs back. He hasn't spoken in a long time. He used to speak to his Handler, but then-

no.

How could he?

His Handler doesn't speak.

He shakes off the confusion - literally - as his Handler gives his forearm a squeeze. And then they're moving, following their target into the hotel they had been fighting behind.


	3. escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hotel is deadly silent. It's not a hotel anymore; now it is a ruin, so to speak, closed down and run down and filthy. The Soldier immediately worries for his Handler. He is so small, so frail looking, that despite the way he lifts that gun and holds it to his chest, how he hits his mark every time, how he'll fight with his fists and come out swinging, the Soldier always thinks he will break.
> 
> He pushes the worry down; he is not supposed to be worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some violence with this, as with the others, any mistakes are mine!

They follow their target, their last target, into the hotel. Pierce never gives a shit about what they have to do, where they have to go, as long as they get their target. He watches from afar, leaves them in the field until they're done.

The Soldier advances, and his Handler follows behind, watching his six. He's not sure where that phrase comes from, because his Handler himself as never said it, but it's been floating around the back of his mind for a while.

The hotel is deadly silent. It's not a hotel anymore; now it is a ruin, so to speak, closed down and run down and filthy. The Soldier immediately worries for his Handler. He is so small, so frail looking, that despite the way he lifts that gun and holds it to his chest, how he hits his mark every time, how he'll fight with his fists and come out swinging, the Soldier always thinks he will break.

He pushes the worry down; he is not supposed to be worried.

He spares a glance over his shoulder at his Handler, and relaxes marginally. He carries on.

He busts open one door at a time, as silently as is possible, whilst his Handler watches his back. Door after door are opened; some are hanging off their hinges, others are locked shut. The Soldier has no idea how this place was closed down, or why, but he has a feeling people have been back to it since then.

He pushes forward, busting open doors, but to no avail.

And then a bullet flies out of the darkness and hits his shoulder. Thankfully, it's his left shoulder. It bounces off with a loud, metallic ping, and flies back to imbed itself in the wall.

And then all hell breaks loose.

There is a lot more firing, and the Soldier, through the dark, makes out the shape of their target in the shadows, just around the corner to the stairwell. He fires, but his bullets always miss, and he's surprised when he hears a cry that is neither his, nor his Handler's. It is their targets; the Soldier thinks he sees him clutch at his shoulder, and half-turns to see the small, smug half-smile of his Handler. Something like pride swells in his chest, but he has no idea why. Instead of lingering on it he turns, and fires into the darkness, only to find out that their target has disappeared.

"The stairs." He growls, because he always growls, and he follows his target into the shadows.

~*~

They do the same. The Soldier opens door after door, and his Handler watches his back.

They find their target when he fires towards them again, from out of the darkness, but this time things are far easier. Light streams in from grimy windows and illuminates his silhouette, so the Soldier simply fires towards it, calculates in his mind where his heart should be, his temple. It should be easy.

But then a bullet finds his abdomen. He's not sure how it got it, as his uniform is hard leather, has been tested, should deflect bullets, but it has failed him. He doesn't cry out, but his vision swims. He fumbles with his gun, goes to shoot, when he finds their target is already gone, slumped against the wall. The Soldier can only see his foot from out of the shadows.

There is a hand pressed to his side, and he immediately flinches, before he finds that it is, in fact, his Handler. He softens marginally, ducks his head. He can just about see the red oozing out of his side. His Handler's hands become coated in it. It is only when he finally looks at his Handler that he finds his lips are moving, quick, a flurry of words. The Soldier isn't goof at lip reading, he can only make out a few. _okay, hurt, get out, leave._ He doesn't catch any of the meaning.

The Soldier wonders why. Why is his Handler speaking, or attempting to, when before he had used such fluent sign language? It doesn't make any sense.

_Where are we going, Buck?_

It's like a whisper from the very back of his mind, a whisp of a memory, and he freezes. That voice is so warm, so warm and so rich and it sparks something deep within him. Familiarity. Home.

It's his Handler's voice.

But his Handler doesn't speak.

He must catch onto that just as the Soldier does, as he slaps a hand over his mouth, smearing his lips with blood. He looks up at the Soldier, and there are tears evident in his eyes. Neither of them cry. They don't have anything to cry about.

His Handler's voice is still ringing in his ears, but he goes back to sign language. His hands shake, and the Soldier doesn't catch any of it. He's not looking at his hands anyway.

They did this.

"What did they do to you?" The Soldier whispers, and his Handler takes a deep intake of breath, gasps. Well, then. That settles it.

The Soldier knows that they, HYDRA, will be back in at least fifteen minutes.

That's a fifteen minute head start.

He wraps an arm around the waist of his Handler and pulls him close to him, so that he cannot protest. He pulls him out of the room, towards the end of the hall, where there is a window. He smashes through it with his metal arm, clears it, and then lifts his Handler out. There's a car on the street outside; easy enough to jack.

And they escape. They escape with his Handler looking on, wide blue eyes and trembling hands. The Soldier knows this is right. They've hurt him. They've hurt the only person who matters to him.

He has to get him away.


	4. running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They run. They're free, but they cannot stop running.
> 
> The Soldier doesn't think he minds.

They end up in a motel. It's late. The Soldier doesn't know how late, but it's dark and it's been dark for a while, and it's the height of summer, so he's assuming it's late. Maybe the early hours. His Handler sits in the car beside him, his hands still shaking. He's nervous. The Soldier can understand why.

The Soldier is the one to leave the car. He's not sure why. He doesn't like leaving his Handler behind in the car but he hates it, he hates walking through the dim streetlights to the reception. There's noone behind the desk, so he takes a key from behind it, and leaves. The clock on the wall says 3.30am. Time doesn't mean that much to the Soldier, though, so he just leaves.

He has a moment of panic when his eyes find the car and sees that it's empty. His heart hammers in his chest, jumps right into his throat, and he takes a clumsy step forward. They've followed them. They've found them. HYDRA have found them and they've taken his Handler and last time they took his voice, god knows what they're going to do now-

A slim hand reaches out and tugs him into the shadows cast by the side of the building. A cobweb hits the Soldier's forehad, and he bats it away. His yes adjust quickly to the dark, and he spots his Handler, who smiles unsteadily.

"I prefer the shadows." He signs, and the Soldier nods.

"Room 309." He says in answer, taking his Handler by the hand again to lead him to their room.

There is only one bed. That doesn't bother the Soldier. He locks the door, he closes the curtains and the blinds, puts on a lamp and covers it with a pillowcase to dampen the light. He doesn't undress when he flops down onto the bed, facing the door. His Handler has gone to the bathroom, and the Soldier listens to every sound, the flick of the light switch and the running of the tap, the creek of the floorboards under small feet. He has to know that his Handler is there, and he's not entirely sure why.

It's possessive. HYDRA have taken something from him, not just his Handler's voice, but his _memories_. He hears that voice, the voice that was his Handler's but _not_ , a voice from so very long ago, before all of this. HYDRA have taken that from him. There was a life before this, he thinks, a life with his Handler. That's why he's being so possessive. They robbed him of that life, and so now he has to make his own, he has to make a new life with his Handler, one he will remember this time.

He feels the bed dip when his Handler sits down, feels the covers shift as he lies on top of them. He feels fingertips press into his spine, and only then does he take his eyes off the door. He rolls around, onto his other side, and he looks at his Handler. His hair has fallen into his eyes. He's gotten rid of his mask. He props his head on his arm rather than the pillow; reduces the amount of evidence left behind.

"You don't have to stay with me." The Soldier says. "You can go anywhere."

His Handler shakes his head. Something in the Soldier wilts. Worry. It was worry. His Handler wants to stay with him, and he's not worried anymore.

 _I want to stay_. The words are mouthed, and his throat trembles as if he's trying to speak. When no sound comes out, he doesn't gasp. He doesn't look alarmed. He just looks tired. He looks tired, and hurt, and the Soldier reaches out, gloved fingertips brushing his cheek. He presses his palm to the skin, and his Handler pushes into the contact.

They have done this before. The Soldier remembers that much. Nights spent in his holding cell, curled up on the same bed even though there were two, one for him and one for his Handler. They curled up together, chests pressed against one another, lips close but not touching. Never touching.

They lie like that until dawn. At the first sign of sunrise, they get up, and they go.

~*~

Four motels, a new one every night. It's stupid for them to move during the day, they should move at night, the Soldier knows that, but maybe that's what HYDRA will expect of them.

Another night, another motel. It goes on for a week.

Every night they get closer. The first night he cups his cheek, the second he presses their forehead together. The third, he noses at his skin. The fourth, he pulls him close, chests pressing together. The fifth, he kisses him, but not really. His lips meet his chin, near his mouth but not near enough. The sixth, his kisses the corner of his mouth. His Handler lets out a sigh. The seventh and he kisses him properly, their lips meeting, softly pressing together and then harder, so much harder, mashing together. They shift until his Handler is sat in his lap, pawing at the straps of leather that bind his uniform. The Soldier shifts them. It's too close to dawn for them to undress. He flips his Handler over and kisses his neck, bites at it and feels his Handler arch beneath him, ragged gasps escaping into the room. His lips travel down, down until he's opening up the zipper of his trousers and wrapping his lips around his cock.

It's familiar. It's so familiar.

Dark eyes flick up to his Handler's face. There's no noise, no sound, just his breathing, thick and heavy, gasping. His lips are parted, mouth hanging open, head tilted back.

When he climaxes he tugs at the Soldier's hair, and it feels sweet.

They have to keep going. They have to keep moving.

The eight night they stay in a house, not a motel. It's empty, in the middle of a dingy little neighbourhood. No neighbours, not really. There's broken glass on the path outside, and a dog barks throughout the night. It doesn't bother either of them. They kiss, they sleep in each other's arms. They don't speak. Why bother? His Handler cannot speak anyway.

They run. They're free, but they cannot stop running.

The Soldier doesn't think he minds.


	5. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turns until he can hide his Handler behind his body, shield it with his own. There is a gun strapped to his thigh, and he pulls it out, raises it. There are a lot of people in the room already, twenty, thirty agents. The Soldier is about to shoot, finger hovering over the trigger-
> 
> "Don't you dare."

They manage another two weeks of freedom, and then HYDRA catch up to them.

It was inevitable, really. They aren't people; they're assets. Both of them. Even missing some vocal chords and an arm, they are both assets, and they belong to HYDRA. They are weapons, and nothing more. Simply lost property.

Although the Soldier doesn't think lost property will be punished as thoroughly as the two of them will.

He's been having memories. Dreams. Nightmares. He sees things, a small body with straw blonde hair, golden in the sunlight, and wide blue eyes. Lips curved up into a smile. It is his Handler, before all of this. It has to be. They're the exact same person.

The Soldier lies facing the door, with his Handler in his arms. He tucks his had into the crook of the Soldier's neck, and sleeps. They usually try to sleep in shifts, but his Handler has slept half an hour into his supposed shift, and the Soldier just doesn't have the heart to wake him up. He's too peaceful, curled against him like this. He's just too calm, too quiet.

When the door bursts open, he's already up.

He turns until he can hide his Handler behind his body, shield it with his own. There is a gun strapped to his thigh, and he pulls it out, raises it. There are a lot of people in the room already, twenty, thirty agents. The Soldier is about to shoot, finger hovering over the trigger-

"Don't you dare."

Pierce's voice sends a shiver down his spine, and though he falters, he doesn't drop the gun.

"Put that down, Soldier."

The Soldier doesn't move.

"Stand _down_."

The gun hits the floor before the Soldier even remembers dropping it. Two agents step forward and grab his arms, hoist him up off th bed. He doesn't retaliate. But when he feels the warmth his Handler provides disappearing from his back, he turns. His Handler's nose is bloody, for some reason. The Soldier can see blood on the knuckles of one agent as he holds him back, large handing wrapping around a skinny arm, and it makes the Soldier's blood boil.

"Don't touch him." He growls, and Pierce laughs.

"You're not giving us orders, Soldier." He says, a feral sort of grin on his lips. "You are an _asset_. Nothing more. You've had your fun. And now we're bringing you back."

The Soldier struggles, but then there's a taser in his spine; it's a high enough voltage to take him down, cause him to drop to his knees in a groan. He can't see his Handler, and obviously he cannot hear him, and his chest aches to think that they could be hurting him, or that maybe he doesn't care at all.

They lift him up; his legs feel weak, too heavy, like he can't move them. He groans as two agents lift him up, and Pierce says, "Take him to the van. Drug him when you get there."

His answering whine is somewhat pathetic, but they don't even get him to the door before the side of the wall explodes.

His head is still heavy and fuzzy, but there's yelling, there's a man in metal, a metal man, and a woman with red hair he's sure he remembers. He falls back with the blast from the wall and his heavy legs, head hitting the wall. Not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to hurt.

When he feels a hand on his chest, he opens his eyes. His Handler looks at him with wide eyes, and the Soldier knows that something is happening. There's yelling, there's gunfire, there are bodies hitting the floor. He pulls his Handler into his chest, and opts out of fighting, hiding by the side of the bed.

It all goes silent. There's a whoop from somewhere in the room, and the Soldier watches as Pierce is marched out in handcuffs.

"Bucky?"

The Soldier knows that name. It's come back to him over and over again, but every time he sees it he sees a small body, the body of his Handler.

"Bucky, it's okay. It's me. It's Steve. It's- Oh god."

His Handler lifts his head, and the two look at each other. They're exactly the same, but so different. His Handler is small and slim and somewhat frail, delicate, like a bird. The man opposite them is pure brawn, six foot of muscle, easily 200 pounds, probably more. But their faces are exactly the same.

"What's the hold up, Cap?" It's the metal man. "We're taking Pierce back to SHIELD, and we should these two- son of a bitch."

His eyes narrow. Something is wrong. He clutches his Handler close to his chest, lips grazing his forehead.

The man opposite them, the one with his Handler's face, looks somewhat uncomfortable. _Very_ uncomfortable.

The woman with the red hair, the one he swears he knows, reassures him in Russian that everything's fine, they're here to help. She urges him to standing, and he pulls his Handler with him. The Soldier stays away from the one with his Handler's face. He has no idea who he is, or _what_ he is. He could be another HYDRA trick. This could all be another HYDRA trick.

But they step out into the sunshine, and it doesn't feel like a trick. He feels free. And as long as he has his Handler, he doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! I might write a sequel, but I have another 2, maybe 3 things that I'm working on, so a sequel's not high on my list of priorities. I apologise for any spelling mistakes in there, and I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come. Just know that it's gonna get a little worse before it gets better.


End file.
